


A Mature Wolf

by oonaseckar



Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2020-09-06 19:17:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 2,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20296618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oonaseckar/pseuds/oonaseckar
Summary: Wilf works in an art gallery, and doesn't normally date older men.  Or werewolves.





	1. Unprofessional Behavior

"My mamma always told me to beware the smooth, handsome wolf in sheep's clothing."

That was the first thing that Jonathan had to say, to the well-dressed middle-aged gent at the private showing. It was an exhibition of the notebooks, watercolours, casual doodlings and garden plans of Vita Sackville-West, and the first that Jonathan had curated single-handed.

It also wasn't a very professional line, to a potential buyer. And not even much good as a pick-up. But this was certainly a handsome (possible) customer -- black hair, silvered at the sides, brilliant blue eyes, face like the film version of a Sicilian mobster.

To his credit, the guy was completely unfazed. He just turned to look at Jonathan -- from his close examination of a watercolour detail of some rather nice herb-garden box hedging -- and raised his eyebrows. And made a slight gesture with beautiful pianist fingers, indicating his very nice Italian-cut suit. Sheep's clothing, _this? _he seemed to say, without speaking a word.

"Merino, isn't it?" Jonathan said. "_High in the mountains a lonely goatherd_, et cetera. Or shepherd, if you prefer." It was, too. Jonathan knew his gentlemen's _couture_. It was a very nice merino blend, cut and tailored by experts. _Expensive _experts.

"I'm sorry," Jonathan said. "You were so wrapped up in the exhibits, I was a little bit jealous. I just had to interrupt." Oh, Jonathan's _tongue_. It was going to get him in trouble one of these fine days. Perhaps it already had.

And _nameless_ _mature_ _beauty_ looked back at him a moment, steady. And then smiled. "You don't need to be jealous," he said.


	2. fishing for a bite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not the kind of bite Wilf's expecting, perhaps.

This gentleman wasn't even his type. Jonathan wasn't looking for a sugar daddy, he didn't have deep-rooted insecurities, he wasn't looking for security. Nothing so boring.

He was out for a good time. He was working as a barely paid trainee in a rich successful gallery, because he had a genuine interest in art, not to meet rich men.

He didn't run after _anyone_. He was used to being run after, himself.

Now, he might as well be bent over and twerking, offering it up. And this man turned and took a good scrutinising look at Jonathan. And he said, "I'm married."

Well, _that _was brutal. Jonathan's glance fell to the appropriate hand. Yes, there it was, a dull platinum gleam. Discreet, but still, obviously he should have checked, before going full-on stalker/slut. And he was mortified -- flushing so hard he could feel his face _glow_. He couldn't talk the first time he tried it -- and the second, he only managed, "I don't mean -- I'm sorry--"

He should've shut the fucker down, should have claimed a misunderstanding (and gross egotism on this bugger's part, no matter how pretty.)

Except there was no misunderstanding. Jonathan was copped, fair and square, they both knew it. He half expected to be tortured further, perhaps a little more subtly. And stepped away, in horrified anticipation.

His way was blocked: his torturer stepped in front of him. And did not look gleeful, or cruel, when he said, "I only wanted you to know."

Oh, if Jonathan had any sense... Well, then he wouldn't have begun this damnable conversation in the first place. But also, he could perfectly well still front it out. Could, but didn't.

It was hard to lift his eyes, when he knew he was red in the face and not exactly looking his best. But once it was done, he couldn't look away.

"What say I ask you out to dinner," Jonathan was asked. By a handsome nameless middle-aged man, who he'd barely spoken to at all, had practically just laid eyes on. "What would you say?" He was smiling. Just a bit. He had golden skin, like someone who holidayed in Tuscany and skied in season. He was gorgeous: surely had to be fielding approaches smoother than Jonathan's, all the time. No wonder it didn't faze him.

It was a bit late to play the blushing virgin, after all. "Yes," Jonathan said, quite shameless. Yes, yes, yes.

So, then, there was the working day to finish, and the actual showing to buzz through.

Mostly, he kept his mind on the job. It was only a date. (It wasn't a date: it was a free meal -- probably a very nice one -- followed by sex. And not getting called again. He schooled himself a few times, running through these obvious facts.)


	3. sweet dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anticipation.

Jonathan was dreaming with his head way up in the clouds, when he was done for the evening. He had personally sold two pieces -- as a salesperson on commission, not as an artist. (He was an artist, too, though, of course. Of course.)

He was dreaming about steady, steel-grey eyes, intent on his. (He was dreaming about the sex, that was unofficially scheduled for about six hours time. Dreaming enough, to be sweating lightly, and uncomfortable in his well-tailored pants.)


	4. only lunatics believe in werewolves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wilf was expecting a good meal and a bit of fun with a handsome older gent. Not an episode of the sodding Twilight Zone.

And a couple of hours later, shivering on a green hill outside S.F., all that Wilf could think was that, well, he hadn't bargained for _this_. Wined, dined and romanced, that was the essence of what he'd been expecting: if, by _romanced_, one took that for shorthand, to mean a good seeing-to, something to leave him sweating and exhausted, no complaints.

But no, at this stage in the game, he hadn't been dined -- not a crumb, not a morsel. (And his empty stomach, plaintively piping up about it from time to time. A boy had to eat, after all. At someone's else's expense, if possible -- a rich and _elegant_ someone, for preference.)

Nor had he been wined, sober as a judge. And as for romance... They were parked up on a lonely peak, a remote hill, out close by the ranges where nutcases of Wilf's acquaintance went free-climbing, running, rappelling, and other pursuits for the adrenalin-fuelled psycho, or the suicidal.

Damn, it was a lonely spot. The dark, and the moonlight, just him and Mr Cargill. Or Charles, as he'd been invited to call him.

It wasn't that Wilf was expecting to get _axe_-_murdered_ at this point, exactly. Cargill didn't quite have that vibe about him.

Although -- Wilf was finding himself forced to wonder -- if Cargill _wasn't_ a serial killer, then what exactly _was_ he? Currently standing out right at the tip of the cliff and looking out at the rocks and the scrubble and the bushes below, the blue night and the lights of the city. Not paying a mite of attention to Wilf, mind you -- who was standing way, way back, havering nervously by the open door of Cargill's pretty Italian car.

"It's a bit chilly," Wilf called out now. Which translated, in pass-agg code, as '_this is **not **what you promised me -- however implicitly -- and you can either take me to a decent restaurant, like now, or forget about a shag later on in the evening. Or at the very least, step up the pace and get on with the shag, before I die of terminal goosebumps._'

Cargill didn't respond, not directly. What he said, was, "Do you like the moon, Wilf?"

And then, without turning around, he started to strip off his hand-made beautiful suit.

xxx

Wilf woke up. It felt like about ten or fifteen minutes later, but really how was he to know?

They were still on the cliff-edge... and judging by the throb of the back of his head, he'd gone down hard when he fell. (Fell? It was a little foggy: a white haze around the yellow moon, and a bit of a fog in Wilf's brain, too.)

A quick, awkward fumble proved that he was fully clothed. Not _roofied_, then. No interference whatsoever.

But he was the only one present, who could make that proud boast.

Mr Cargill -- Charles -- was butt-naked. (It's impossible, even mentally, to refer to a person as Mr _anything_ \-- not when they've got it all _hanging_ _out_ _there_. Quite impressively hanging out there, in fact.)

The nudity wasn't all that surprising, really, given that some small sliver of memory was digging at Wilf.

The man had been taking his clothes off: his own, not Wilf's. _Disrobing_. Hadn't he?

And now, he was kneeling beside Wilf, where Wilf was lying on the _very_ cold hard ground. Unself-conscious, and with damn little to be self-conscious about: for a greying, sober, middle-aged dude, he had an astonishingly beautiful body. Like a Greek statue: rather more perfected than that, in fact.

Perhaps Wilf was staring. Charles glanced down briefly at his own body, and back at the heap of clothes left on a rock by the cliff edge. Then seemed to dismiss the thought, almost to shrug, turning his attention back to Wilf. "Let me see your head," he said, reaching out and feeling around the back of Wilf's skull. "You went down with quite a crack." His fingers came away wet with blood, setting Wilf's heart thudding hard in panic.

But Charles dismissed it. "Nothing major there. You'll be fine," he said. And, 'according to you and what medical qualification?' was what Wilf _ought _probably to have said. In truth, there was something hypnotically reassuring in Charles' soft dark voice.

He was cold. Even clothed, he was cold, and he struggled up on his elbows, feeling a little sick. "But what happened?" he said. Hearing the snippy, aggressive note in his voice, and not caring much.

"You fainted," Charles said: he was looking into the middle distance, thoughtful: not looking at Wilf. It didn't precisely seem like avoidance. He licked his thumb, where it was wet, and red. Wet, and red, with Wilf's blood.

Now _there_ was something which should absolutely have been creepy. Not _hot_.

"Faint?" Wilf said, weakly. "I don't faint. Why would I..." And he shut his mouth, abruptly. Because, now, that vague shadow of a memory took shape, caught fire. Oh, no, Wilf didn't faint. Was the straightest-acting, laddiest queer in the city, with apologies to the queenier of his buddies. He _didn't_ faint: normally.

"You were taking your clothes off," he said now, staring at Charles. "You took your clothes off, and..."

Charles met his eyes, his own blue and calm. Under the moon, he was a marble statue of what a man might be at mid-life, a little greying, honed, perfected. At a zenith, in terms of beauty, and with that buzz of power around him. Loud, _loud_.

"Yes. I took my clothes off," he agreed. He was smiling, a bit. "And then?"

Maybe Wilf was just losing his mind. Maybe this weird, middle-aged geezer _had_ roofied him, after all. "I think maybe ... I had a nightmare?" he said, uncertainly.

Now Charles smiled more fully. Wilf had the feeling that he might have said something endearingly dumb. "Are you sure about that?" he asked, encouragingly.

"N-no?" Wilf said, doubtful.. "I... thought I saw something. I think I remember..." Craziness. Insanity, and impossibility: that was what he was, very firmly, _not_ remembering. Or trying not to.

"Would it help, if you saw it again?" Charles asked, gently. He stood up, and stretched, not noticeably inhibited by his lovely nudity. For an older guy, he had a _lot _of confidence.

And two minutes later -- less -- Wilf fainted. Again.

xxx

He woke up, very shortly afterwards, being carried to the car, by Charles. (A still-naked Charles, not suffering gooseflesh in the stiff breeze off the hills. Yes.)

"You're a wolf," Wilf said, a bit garbled, a bit woozy. His voice was up and down, hiccuping, giving out on him in breathy sighs. "Which means -- werewolves exist. Werewolves!"

"Yes," Charles agreed. Impassivity like that cried out for a smack, in Wilf's opinion. And Cargill was taking so much notice of Wilf's emotional state -- so very _little_ \-- that he was more focused on toeing the car-door further ajar, and manhandling Wilf into the backseat.

(Quite easily. And Wilf wasn't an effete, svelte slip of a man-boy. He had bone and muscle, played basketball and went hill-running. Not obsessively, not like a maniac. But enough to enhance his own beauty: enough to be _strong_. Strong, and heavy.)


	5. post-hardcore dude's in love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fugazi forever! Nazi punks fuck off! actually Mineral were really really underrated! etc etc.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a call-out to 'Chuck-E's In Love', by Rickie Lee Jones, terrific song-writer and muse to Tom Waits into the bargain. omg, apparently Carly Rae Jepsen has also done a versh! Lady Carly!

Despite appearances, Wilf wasn't entirely unaccustomed to a little aggro. He'd used to go see punker hardcore bands, home in D.C., back in the day. Moshing in the pit, confronting queer-hating queer-baiting 'music fans'. (He used to help put on the odd show, for amateur friends in bands. He used to... Well, he used to do a lot of things, that didn't suit his current soft-voiced art-world persona. He was something of a chameleon: was who he needed to be, according to his current company and goals. Wasn't everyone? Except Wilf was _good_ at it.)


	6. beware the handsome stranger with a furry pelt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wilf is _not_ someone who can believe six impossible things before breakfast. He fucking _refuses._

Not much like the muscle that had rippled on the flanks of the wolf, though. The wolf that had sprung out of Charles' body, grown out of it, as if he were no more than so much raw material. Its fur had been the colour of steel, every hair a tiny blade, diamond-sharp. In the movies, they always made it look so painful, such an ordeal. But Charles had been calm, unruffled. He was suddenly engulfed. Lost, gone, with a strange wolf substituted, as if it were nothing to do with the man who'd stood there a moment since. It had given Wilf a cold look.

It was hard to believe there was any connection between the two. Except for Wilf's own eyes. He sat, now, slack-limbed in the back of Charles Steel's Lexus. Of course, he could have just dosed me with LSD, with mushrooms, Wilf thought. It was a cheerful, reassuring thought. Yes, that had to be it.

Charles had done it twice, though. _Twice_. Had Wilf had time to return to lucidity, twice?

Even a psychotic break would be a comforting thought, right about now.

Charles was getting dressed, outside the car, in the moonlight. He wasn't in any hurry. And, as if he felt Wilf's regard like a touch upon his (beautiful, golden) skin, he turned. And smiled.

His eyes were grey -- steel grey. But much warmer than the wolf's.

God, Wilf had been afraid of that thing.

Hence all the fainting.

Wilf's slack-jawed musings were interrupted by the slam of the car door. Charles climbed into the driver's seat, fully dressed now. That good suit was a little wrinkled by this point. He didn't seem too perturbed about it, as he swiveled in his seat, turning around to smile at Wilf again.

Oh, there was something sad about his mile.

"You didn't care for my wolf much, then," he said now, to Wilf.

Wilf could feel the air travelling, through his nostrils, down his airway, into his lungs, as he took a careful, difficult breath. It burnt, the oxygen, all the way down. Hard to speak, too. "What wolf?" he said, distinctly. "You _dosed_ me. What did you dose me with?"

"Really, did I?" Charles asked him. His eyes were lighter: they were laughing at Wilf. "And you correctly predicted what to hallucinate, in advance of my asking you about it? How charmingly submissive and obedient of you."

Beautiful, he was beautiful. The bone structure too perfect to be marred by age, like Terence Stamp.


	7. if you spy a naked man among the pines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What's true is true. Wilf is a little reluctant to accept that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title by Angela Carter.

"Good point," Wilf said faintly.


End file.
